SPENCER LIVES IN A DUPLEX, puce stucco smeared over splintery frame, located in a lower-class residential neighborhood.

He drives up in his battered bug, the color and texture of a jaundiced earlobe. He parks on the street, and when he gets out, the potato masher slips from his backpack and lands on his toe.

He gathers it back up before it can be seen by the nice old couple who share the place with him. They're sitting on their front stoop, enjoying the night air.

Limping a bit, Spencer heads for his door.

"Good evening," says Mr. Nussbaum.

"Have you injured yourself, Mr. Sproul?" asks Mrs. Nussbaum.

"Oh, quite well, ma'am. Yet thank you for the proffer."